


That Boy is a Monster

by autoschediastic



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Halloween, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-26
Updated: 2010-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:57:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is something not right about Tommy Joe, but Adam's not so sure it's wrong, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Boy is a Monster

"Hey," Tommy says, sidling on up to where Adam stands in front of the mirror fussing with one last touch to his makeup. He rests his cheek against Adam's shoulder, big brown eyes turned up to watch. He's a little chilled when Adam drapes an arm around him, the hotel's A/C cranked too high, so Adam pulls him closer, rubs some warmth back into him. "I fucking love that Clockwork orange thing."

"Yeah?" Adam strikes a pose, chin down, sly, dark quirk of a smile, and meets Tommy's reflected gaze.

But Tommy's not looking at him. Tommy is looking at his mouth, focused so intently that Adam's lips prickle. His tongue darts out reflexively, wetting them, and he watches Tommy's gaze slide down, a ghost of sensation left in its wake as it skims over his throat, takes in his outfit all the way down to his boots. It's heavy, appraising, and leaves Adam feeling not so much like he's been checked out as opened up and riffled through. He's unsettled by it. Thrilled. It's the sort of look that comes right before a hard fuck.

"What d'you want me to wear?" Tommy asks, like it's no big deal for his friend and employer to dress him up in latex and leather for a night out, to hold his face while smoothing midnight black glitter onto his eyes, heart-blood red lipstick across his mouth. Like it wouldn't be anything, nothing at all, to put everything he is in Adam's hands.

Adam has no idea where that thought came from, but it's stuck in his head now, flittering around on slim razor wings. He swallows tightly and works up a smile in response to the one curving Tommy's tiny, perfect mouth.

*

There's something not right about Tommy Joe. On and off for the last seven months, and steadily now for the past twenty-eight minutes while Adam lounges on couch in some club he didn't catch the name of, surrounded by friendly bodies on an after-show high, he tries to figure out what the hell it is about Tommy that's burrowed under his skin. Whatever it is, it plucks at the edges of Adam's awareness, like a note sung off tune or a chord out of place. He has a platoon of non-conformist friends, whacky and free-spirited, gender-bending and defiant, so it's not the strangely compelling dichotomy in how Tommy moves, delicately femme, and the wiry strength in his small frame, or his trash-talking gutter mouth running up against his endless patience, his easy, mellow acceptance. It's not anything Adam can put a finger on. It drives him absolutely crazy. Sometimes he thinks that if he could just figure it out, the spell would shatter and Tommy would simply be Tommy, not some puzzle desperately in need of solving for the sake of Adam's sanity.

Because lusting after the bi-curious straight prettyboy is one thing. Wishing fervently, with all his filthy, dirty heart and soul, for Tommy to drop that beer and crawl into his lap, onto his cock, ride him until his brain leaks out his ears, is another. He has Technicolor dreams about it night after night, waking with Tommy's sweet moans echoing inside his head, his body humming with the memory of Tommy pinned beneath it. It's a hell Adam honestly believes he doesn't deserve.

If somebody tossed him a rope to climb out of the pit, though, he'd throw it right back.

*

"You're so fucked," Tommy says, big grin plastered across his face, his shoulder tucked beneath Adam's arm, ostensibly to steady him. Tommy's taking way more of Adam's weight than his legs currently are. Curiously, and with a secret thrill, as if it's something that needs to be gotten away with like teenagers making out under the bleachers or smoking pot in somebody's parents' basement, Adam leans a little more heavily on him, then a little more.

Tommy doesn't blink. Doesn't even acknowledge it, not with a look, or a sound, or even a shuffle of his feet to resettle his balance. No one in the cramped elevator, all of them laughing and chattering on, seems to realise that Tommy is the only thing in the world keeping Adam's ass off the floor. Adam stares dumbly at them. Why aren't they seeing this?

Terrence whistles. "Hot damn, boss man. What bag o' treats did you get into?"

"Tommy," Adam says, slowly, and up goes a chorus of howls.

Tommy peers up at him. "Freak," he says affectionately.

Adam scowls. That's not what he meant. He'd explain what he fucking meant if everyone would shut up for a minute. But before he can get his tongue with the program, the elevator dings and the doors whoosh open. A cheerful round of goodnights, along with Tommy's hands firm on his back and belly, usher Adam out into the hallway. The hotel hush comes crashing in. Adam sways on his feet.

"Easy, hot stuff," Tommy says, and with a gentle nudge, starts leading him back to the room. "Man, you even smell like a fucking brewery."

"Got tired of thinking," Adam sighs. Tommy's nose wrinkles adorably in the gust of Jack-and-Coke. "'Bout you."

"Not much there to think about. Fucking hold still." Tommy pats down Adam's ass, dipping into a pocket and emerging with a key card. "You gonna walk or am I stuck carrying your drunk ass to bed?"

"Could you?" Adam asks, too seriously. He wonders if Tommy would fling him over one shoulder, or cart him off bridal style. He wonders if Tommy is a fan of drunken fumbly first-time sex. Sobriety is a fond memory.

Tommy gives him a long, cryptic look. The hairs on the back of Adam's neck prickle. It takes him a long, long time to get around to saying, exasperated and fond like all best friends the world over who end up stuck with the drunk when they're way too sober for this shit, "Lie down before you fucking fall down."

The trip to the bed passes in a dizzying blur. Adam's stomach lurches alarmingly as he sits down on the edge. He seriously hadn't thought he'd downed that much alcohol. He tries to remember exactly what order the drinks came in, but his mind completely blanks when Tommy kneels down in front of him. He says, "Oh shit."

Wryly glancing up from unlacing Adam's boots, Tommy says, "Calm down, cowboy."

"Sorry," Adam says, pure reflex. His brain is still chugging intoxicatedly along the tracks that lead from his dick to Tommy's mouth. In the morning he's going to feel like a creepy shit for imagining what Tommy's blowjobs are like while Tommy's down there making sure he gets his severely inebriated freckled ass into bed without a concussion, but right now all he can think is, _Holy shit, I bet he's fucking amazing_.

A small smile lifts the corners of Tommy's mouth. Before Adam realises what he's doing, he reaches out to trace the long, full curve of Tommy's bottom lip with a fingertip. By the time his sluggish brain relays that information to him, it's too late anyway. He keeps on going along the rise-dip-rise of Tommy's upper lip, back and forth and back and forth a few times, Tommy's breath tickling the backs of his fingers.

Adam's pulse kicks into overdrive when Tommy elbows his knees apart, scooting in between them to rest his forearms on Adam's thighs, chin propped up on his laced fingers. He firmly reminds both his brain and other pertinent body parts that there are absolutely no blowjobs about to happen. Even if there _were_ blowjobs about to happen, he's sure he'd put a responsible stop to them. Or at least delay them until he'd have significantly less alcohol-induced memory loss the following morning.

But then Tommy asks, "You got something on your mind?" blowing his nice, comforting certainty to smithereens.

There _had_ been something on Adam's mind. Something entirely unrelated to Tommy's mouth. Mostly unrelated, anyway, and Adam has the nagging feeling it was important even though he can't remember what it was exactly. "You," he ends up saying, honesty kicking back in where tact and logic are failing.

Tommy's head tilts. "That all you think about?"

"No," Adam says, watching his fingers push through Tommy's hair as if they're not his fingers at all, "I-"

"'Cause I like that," Tommy says, his eyes mischievous, dark, in the soft light. "Me, on your mind all the time." While Adam gapes at him, he pushes up, and Adam thinks, _oh fuck, oh fuck please_ , but Tommy's mouth skims on past his in a kiss brushed across his cheek. "Sweet dreams," Tommy whispers, shivers cascading down Adam's spine from the touch of lips to his ear.

In a daze, Adam watches Tommy get up, walk to the door and pause after opening it, tossing back one last smile before he's gone. Adam frowns at the empty spot between his knees where Tommy had been. There is something very, very not right going on here, and he doesn't mean the fact that he's sitting in the middle of his hotel room half-hard and alone.

There is something not right about Tommy Joe, but Adam's not so sure it's wrong, either.

*

Adam eyeballs the huddle of Sasha, Taylor and Tommy by the potted palm. He needs to talk to Tommy. It's like an itch he can't shake no matter how hard he scratches. Even after all morning to think about it, he's still not sure what the hell he's going to say, but they need to talk. Last night is an underexposed photograph in his head, whole chunks of it blacked out.

His heart leaps when Sasha makes a move to leave. But then Taylor says something else and they settle back in again.

"Hey," Neil says, coming out of fucking nowhere to thump a hand down on Adam's shoulder. Without waiting for a response, he launches into a bitter diatribe about the venue's security polices.

Adam listens with only half an ear until the word 'confiscate' crops up, then he sighs and gives up entirely as his dancers abscond with his bassist. He turns to Neil. "Run that last bit by me again."

*

It's fifteen minutes to showtime before Adam lays eyes on Tommy again. It's not long enough to talk, and Adam has another five minutes of warm-up to get through, but when he catches a glimpse of Tommy through the half-open door of his temporary dressing room, he bursts out into the hall calling, "Tommy! Tommy Joe!"

Somehow already at the other end of the hall, Tommy pauses. It looks like he's about to toss off a wave and keep on going. Adam's not sure what the hell's gotten into him, but he can't have that. He takes a few quick stumbling steps forward and heaves a massive sigh of relief when Tommy starts heading back his way. It feels like the first time he's really breathed all day.

"You look awesome," Tommy says, fingering the leather thong twined through Adam's hair, the feathers draped over his shoulder. "This one new?"

Adam glances down at it. "Uh, yeah," he says, not sure if the bright blue feather Tommy's stroking is a recent addition or a replacement. "Listen-"

Tommy's gaze jumps to a spot over Adam's shoulder. "In here," he says, ducking inside Adam's fashion jungle. He slouches against a table edge, thumbs hooked into his pockets, ankles crossed. Beneath his makeup, all harsh edges and deep, dark reds and blacks for tonight, he looks tired.

"Aw, baby," Adam says, a lopsided smile on his face as he tilts Tommy's to the light. There are flecks of glitter scattered throughout the black, stars in the sky. "Did Taylor and Sasha wear you out?"

Tommy rolls his eyes. "Fucking fresh air," he gripes. "Five hours of sightseeing. Too many people, too much sun. It was kinda fun, though." He digs through his pocket, pulls out a plastic corn-on-the-cob keychain. There are big, wide eyes and a manic smile painted on it. Tommy holds it up beside his face. "Reminded me of you."

"Thanks," Adam says doubtfully, flipping it over to read _Shucks, I love me some corn!_ written on the back. A startled laugh bursts out of him.

"See?" Tommy smiles, pleased and proud. "Corny. Just like you."

"Bitch," Adam says, stuffing it into his makeup case so he doesn't lose it in a costume change. When he turns around, Tommy is right there behind him. His heart jerks sideways, sharp and sudden. "Am I gonna have to put a bell on you, Tommy Joe?"

Shrugging, Tommy says, "If you want," like he thinks Adam's being serious, and tucks sneaky, fucking _freezing_ fingers under Adam's jacket, into the top of Adam's pants. He cuddles in closer, somehow worming his other hand in under Adam's clothes too, despite Adam's frantic attempts to wriggle away, batting at him. "Man, you've got body heat to spare. Share. Fuckin' miser."

"If you'd fucking _eat_ something, maybe you'd have half an ounce of body fat," Adam says, slumping in defeat. He opens up his coat and gathers Tommy into it, figuring he might as well commit if he's going to be reduced to a portable heater. In ten years, he'll maybe get over how perfectly Tommy fits in his arms. "And now I have frostbite."

Eyes closed, blissful smile on his face, Tommy says, "Quit bitching and do your fucking warm-up shit."

How Adam's supposed to do that with Tommy clinging to him like a limpet, he doesn't know. He tries anyway, too quiet at first because Tommy's ear is pressed right to his chest, notes warbling as Tommy frowns and squeezes him so tightly it drives the breath out of his lungs. "God, you total bitch," he wheezes, and starts again from the top, full-throated without a sliver of concern for Tommy's eardrums.

It gets easier as he sinks into familiar rhythms, but he doesn't get so into it that he forgets Tommy's there. And since he is there, Adam strokes a hand through his hair, twining strands around and around his fingers, feeling a tension he hadn't known Tommy was carrying melt away like ice cubes spilled in the grass on a summer's day. By the time he's done, running a few minutes over his usual, Tommy's warm and loose and happy, the only darkness left around his eyes the sheen of black powder. Adam feels like he could walk out onto that stage and take over the nation with a rhinestone-studded microphone.

Not even thinking about it, Adam cups Tommy's cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his lips. "Feel better?"

"Yeah." Again, Tommy's gaze jumps to somewhere behind Adam, but before Adam can ask, he says in a rush, "I wanted to, okay? Last night. Really fucking bad. But you gotta, you gotta-"

"What the hell," Neil says, shoving in through the door with a giant explosion of neon flowers cradled in his arms. "Adam, your fans are fucking crazy. Awe-inspiring and _crazy_." He stops when he notices Tommy is halfway inside Adam's clothes and frowns. "Whatever whacky pre-show ritual you two are doing, you don't have time. Stage in three." He squints through the flowers. "This is a ritual thing, right? For the sake of my continued sanity, tell me this is a glamrock ritual, because despite all evidence to the contrary, I firmly believe my brother is an eunuch. It's the only feasible explanation for that fucking falsetto."

"So not an eunuch," Tommy says, the haunted look gone from his eyes, replaced with a teasing glint as he thrusts his hips a few times, goes, "Uh uh uh," all dark and breathy.

Neil makes a strangled noise low in his throat. "I didn't see that."

Laughing, Tommy darts up to plant a light kiss square on Adam's shock-slack mouth. "Gotta go, babe. Hump ya later," he says, and he's gone, out the door and down the hall on a puff of displaced air.

"Weird people gravitate towards you, don't they," Neil says, fussing with the flowers, fluffing up some crushed greenery. "You're like a black hole for weirdness."

"Totally explains your existence," Adam says, absently rubbing away the chill left behind by Tommy's hands.

It's not until he's back here halfway through the set and scrambling into his next costume, staring at the florescent orange rose almost poking him in the face, that it occurs to him maybe the whole thing was a little weird, even for them. For the rest of the show, he can't shake the feeling that something's changed.

*

Playing the same location two nights in a row is a rare treat. Long after the crowd clears out, after the venue staff has finished tidying up, and before they have to get ready to do it all again, Adam sometimes likes to sneak out onto the hushed stage. There's something romantic about an empty theatre. The quiet potential, a residual longing for light and sound. Like life, waiting to happen.

"Not gonna sing?" comes Tommy's voice from the shadowed wings.

"Shit," Adam hisses, clutching dramatically at his chest. "You scared the fucking life out of me."

Tommy's boots echo hollowly on the stage. Hands slung in his jeans, he joins Adam in the centre and looks out over the empty seats. "Kinda lonely."

"Maybe," Adam says, "if you want to look at it that way."

"I like it." Tommy's arm snakes around Adam's waist, fingertips sneaking beneath the hem of Adam's shirt to touch skin. It's second nature now for Adam to draw him closer. Fuck ten years, Adam's never going to get over how easily they fit together, but that's not the safest direction to let his thoughts wander. Especially not here, where there's a crackling undertone left in the air.

Hours ago, the lights blazing overhead, the bass pounding through the floor, the audience a surging, wanting thing at their feet, they'd kissed right here. But he's not thinking of the one during _Fever_ , when they'd kept it sweet and light, playful, or before Tommy's intro solo, when Tommy had leaned back against Adam, arched up to offer his mouth for something longer, deeper, his hand falling away from the strings, his body going loose and boneless as Adam gave him exactly what he'd asked for, the screams filling the theatre sounding so far away compared to the groan that had vibrated low in Tommy's throat.

The third kiss, the one half-way through _Whole Lotta Love_ with the music thrumming in Adam's veins like a long, slow fuck and Tommy rising up onto his toes to straddle Adam's thigh, that's the one that's stuck in Adam's head now. The look on Tommy's face, all sly innocence, when he shoved his bass out of the way, grabbed onto Adam's vest and fucked up against him, the soft, heavy heat of Tommy's cock searing his skin through twin layers of cotton; the way Tommy sank back down when Adam fisted his hair, the way he'd leaned too close when Adam tugged, how the mic picked up the ragged noise, genuine and _real_ , that slipped from his open mouth right before Adam kissed him.

"It was good," Tommy says, "so fucking good," and Adam looks down to find Tommy gazing up at him, eyes dark, heavy-lidded with intent. "You wanna do it again."

"How did you-"

"It's written all over your face. You can, you know. If you want."

Icy uncertainty plucks at Adam's nerves. There's no way Tommy can know what he's been thinking. It's true Tommy's always been good at reading him, right from the day they met, but that's because Tommy's quiet, observant. They settled into place beside each other the way pieces of a puzzle snap together. All the really annoying things Adam does--getting pissed off at himself when things he has no control over go wrong, his slightly OCD perfectionism before a performance that melts to _whatever, go with the flow_ once they hit the stage, worrying too much about the people he cares about, smothering them in it--Tommy shrugs off every last one of them.

Still watching, _waiting_ , Tommy says, "Told you, you can do anything to me up here. I know how fucking bad you want to, I can-" He swallows tightly. There's something raw in his eyes right before he closes them, but when they open again, it's gone.

"You can what, Tommy Joe?" Adam asks, startled by the sound of his own voice, the ragged hush to it.

"I can take it."

That wasn't what Tommy had almost said. It doesn't fit them, where they are, the whole fucking conversation they're dancing around having. It's not the first time something jarring's come slipping out of Tommy's mouth, either, caught a second too late, Tommy trotting out a shit job of a cover-up. Every time, he looks surprised about it, like there's no way in hell he could slip up like that. It's kind of shocking and sad it's taken Adam so long to realise it.

"You're lying to me." Even as Adam says it, it sounds weird. He doesn't have a fucking clue about what, either, but he _knows_. He can feel it, wriggly and oil-slick black, smack in the middle of his gut. "You're standing there lying to me right now."

The vague hint of a smile flirting at the corners of Tommy's mouth curves out into something real, dangerous. "Yeah," he admits with an ease that rocks Adam back onto his heels, Tommy's fingers curled into the waistband of his jeans the only thing keeping them pressed so closely together. "But not about the shit that really matters. Are you gonna fucking kiss me or what?"

"No," Adam snaps, "I'm not gonna just kiss you when-"

"I'm right here fucking dying for it," Tommy cuts in, scary-sharp glint in his eyes reflecting the safety lights left burning through the night. His grip goes tight, holding Adam in place so he can thumb open Adam's jeans. "I keep waiting for you to just fucking do it already. All of it. Everything you want." Adam sucks in a breath as a chill hand slips inside his fly, and he should do something to stop this, mostly sober this time around or not, or at least slow it down. But Tommy's still talking and Adam can't fucking move. "You know how fucking easy it is for me to be everything for you?"

"I," Adam says, and then, " _Shit_." This can't be heading where he thinks it is, but oh fuck, that's Tommy's hand curling around his cock, and Tommy's sinking to his knees, dragging Adam's jeans down as he goes. He stares down at Tommy's perfect, pink little mouth right there in front of his dick and some totally flabbergasted chunk of his brain keeps screaming _no way, no fucking way_ even as the soft push of Tommy's breath sends shivers racing up and down his spine.

Tommy says, "You think you can't have me," and Adam almost misses it entirely because the words are murmured into skin, Tommy's face pressed low into his belly, nuzzling, breathing so deep he can hear it. "So stupid, so fucking _stupid_ to make me wait so long."

"What," Adam says, determined to get at least half of a sentence out here, but what's supposed to follow flies straight out of his head as Tommy starts fucking nibbling at him, all these sweet, slow sucking kisses with a hint of teeth. Tiny red marks blossom in Tommy's wake, and Adam's breath catches, holds, as he gets closer and closer to where that's going to blow his fucking mind. Adam's so keyed up waiting for the first touch of Tommy's mouth to his cock that it takes him completely by surprise when Tommy reverses direction, jacking him off slow and hard while licking back out towards his hip, down to the juncture of his thigh.

And then Tommy's mouth fastens to thin, delicate skin and Adam's legs nearly go straight out from underneath him. Tommy holds on tighter, still working his dick, sucking the mother of all hickies into his skin, and it feels so fucking good, like his brain's messed up all the signals, bypassing Tommy's hand entirely to fool him into thinking that's his dick Tommy's sucking on. He grabs onto Tommy's shoulder, hunched over and wheezing up a geriatric storm, eyes squeezed shut in disbelief, because any second now he's going to go off like a fucking teenager.

He pats feebly at Tommy's hair, trying to warn him to get out of the way or take a shot in the face. But Tommy just digs in harder, licking and sucking, and Adam gives him a harder nudge, breaking the suction. Tommy's eyes flash to his face, wild, pupils blown, and Tommy's mouth is red, bright, beautiful blood-red from sucking so hard, red as the marks on Adam's skin-

"Oh shit." Adam stares at the blood trickling down his thigh. He can see where there skin's broken, two neat pinpricks, but he can't feel it. Can't make sense of it, and he looks helplessly back to Tommy in the desperate, misguided hope for an explanation of what the hell's going on. His blood's smeared across Tommy's open mouth, garish as the red-black lipstick Tommy wears on stage sometimes. There are fucking _fangs_ peeking out from between Tommy's lips.

"Oh shit, oh fuck," Adam babbles, "shit, shit," backing away, his jeans sliding down, his voice shooting up, shrill, panicked.

" _Fuck_ ," Tommy spits, a vicious, animal snarl echoing through the empty theatre, and Adam's heart crashes into his ribs like a bullet train from Tokyo. "Don't scream," Tommy warns, guttural twist to his voice, crouched on his haunches, eyes glinting, blood-stained teeth bared. "Fuck, Adam, don't, don't scream," but he rocks forward half a step, hands braced on the stage between his legs, and it's just too fucking much. Adam turns to bolt.

Tommy slams into him before he manages to get one foot up off the floor. They roll, Adam kicking and grunting, Tommy like a lead fucking weight bearing down on him, and he ends up pinned on his back, one of Tommy's hands bruising his shoulder and the other slapped hard to his mouth, crushing his lips against his teeth. He sucks in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring, pain lancing down his spine from the grate of his head against the floor.

"Don't," Tommy says, rough, pleading. "Don't run. I didn't hurt you. I didn't fucking hurt you, Adam, and I won't, don't want to, but I can't let you scream, please don't scream."

Adam bucks, kicking out, and Tommy shifts, does something with his ankles hooked over Adam's legs that pins him flat for good. He drops back, shaking with tension, and spares a second to wonder if he's fallen asleep watching True Blood again and this is just a really insanely vivid dream.

Tommy smiles one of those small, private little smiles. Adam loves that smile. If it weren't for the blood and the fangs and everything, it'd be pretty reassuring. Something of the Tommy Joe he thought he knew.

"Sorry," Tommy says, the slight curve to his lips slipping away. "I didn't mean to, to-" and his gaze flickers down, gets stuck as his voice goes off again, goes _hungry_. "You smell so fucking good. You taste so good when you kiss me, when you let me get a little carried away, let me suck the taste of you off your fingers," and his eyes are scary and weird now too, pupil bleeding out to a cat-eye slit, glittering like midnight. He leans down close, too fucking close, Adam's heart beating a manic drum solo all over his ribcage, and brushes his nose up Adam's jaw as he inhales. He dips lower, sniffing at Adam's throat, prompting a startled burst of sound. He jerks back, snake-quick. His hold stays firm, and his eyes go sad. "Can I, are you gonna scream if I move my hand?"

All things considered, Adam's not really sure what kind of question that's supposed to be, but he's seen enough horror movies to know screaming's not going to help. Probably. He shakes his head.

Cautiously, ready to smack it right back down again if it turns out there are two big stinking liars in the room, Tommy lifts his hand off Adam's mouth. The first thing Adam does is rub his lips, because _ow_ , and the second thing is to lick them, because they're dry and still smarting. Tommy's gaze tracks his tongue like a cat stalking a bird. Another shivers skitters up Adam's spine.

"I guess I shoulda told you," Tommy says, small-voiced and shrinking. It doesn't fit at all with the hand he's dragging down Adam's belly. The corner of his mouth twitches when Adam's half-hard cock does, and Adam risks taking his eyes off Tommy for a second to glance incredulously down at his groin. Mortal terror really should've been enough to kill his boner. Tommy's hand curls around him nice and snug, and Adam's blood rushes south so fast it leaves him dizzy. "Shoulda, woulda," Tommy goes on, stroking slowly, a smooth, clever twist of his wrist making Adam's toes curl in his boots, "but I wanted to show you what I could do. What I could be. Wanted to get you fucking addicted to it, get you craving it, like you got me craving you."

"Tommy," Adam tries, lifting a hand, not sure what he's going to do with it but it feels like he should at least be attempting something other than just taking what's shaping up to be a really awesome handjob lying down. Tommy's lips peel back in a warning snarl. He splays his fingers placatingly.

"You didn't even have to fucking _try_ ," Tommy says, inching closer again, his fingers sneaking up into Adam's hair to tug his head back. Adam swallows tightly, his mouth falling open. He's really pretty sure this isn't a dream. If this were a fucking dream, he'd be the one looking like he's about to sink his freaking fangs into Tommy. "All you had to do was touch me, kiss me, fucking _love_ me and you got me chained up so tight I can't even fucking think if I can't hear your heart beat," and holy fucking shit, Tommy's mouth is on his neck, that's the hard graze of fangs on flesh, and Tommy's still jacking him, slow, easy, perfect. But Tommy's the one who whimpers. Tommy's the one who shudders, pleads, "Tell me you're gonna keep me. Tell me you're gonna let me have you, gonna take care of me. Said you were gonna take care of me, Adam, you fucking promised."

"I," Adam croaks. It's like a picture he can take out and look at, not a memory at all. His arms slung around Tommy's shoulders, Tommy's around his waist, Tommy smiling up at him, bright and happy and in that moment, all for him. He doesn't remember what they were doing, or where they were, the snapshot in his head shows only how alive he'd felt, how he'd been full to bursting with affection for this crazy, gorgeous guy who'd slid so easily into his life, a piece he hadn't realised had been missing. He remembers thinking he could love Tommy Joe, really love him, if he ever had the chance.

He's not sure that's what Tommy's asking him now, but that's what it feels like. Either way, the look on Tommy's face says Tommy's fucking life depends on it, and the answer's yes. A heart-stopping, terrifying yes.

"Say it," Tommy says, shivering, unresisting this time when Adam's arms come up, curl around his back. "You gotta say it, fucking say yes, please, baby, please."

Adam opens his mouth, and he'll never be sure if the sound that spills out really was a yes or just a vague collection of syllables that mean the same thing. Tommy's moan is muffled in the crook of his neck, and then Tommy is on him again, nipping grateful little sucking kisses into his skin. Adam waits, breath held, for the stinging burn of flesh pierced, but when it comes it's nothing like what he'd expected. It hurts, it actually fucking hurts a lot, needle-sharp against raw nerve endings, and the pain shoots through him in blazing twisting sparks, lighting his blood on fire. He buries a hand in Tommy's hair, holding tight as he bucks up into Tommy's fist, and somewhere in mess of sensation he can feel the soft pull of Tommy sucking on his neck, sweet, slow, intimate like Tommy's sunk inside him.

He's not ready for the swift, gut-punch orgasm that slams into him. Tommy's hand slaps over his mouth to muffle it, but he couldn't care fucking less if the whole damn world came crashing in through those doors. He lets pleasure pour out of him on wordless sound, so much like when he's amped up on stage there's no way to regain control until he lets it all go, and he bites savagely at the fleshy part of Tommy's hand when it crushes down harder. Tommy makes a noise for him like he's never heard before, pure and primal, brutally honest, and tears away from his neck, rearing back with his bloodstained mouth glistening, falling open as he fucks up against Adam's hip, gets himself off on just the friction and the heat and Adam's fingers lifted to skim the edges of his fangs.

"Fuck," Tommy grits out, still caught up and shaking, tonguing at Adam's fingers first before sucking them into his mouth, letting Adam feel the hard edges of his teeth. Adam hisses as they cut in, stomping down on the urge to jerk back so Tommy can keep licking, drink down the tiny bit of blood that wells to the surface. Adam's throat is a slick, cooling mess of it, real pain edging in around the hazy edges, but the look on Tommy's face when dark eyes slit open is pure fucking bliss, so real it hurts.

"God," Adam breathes, "c'mere," and Tommy slinks down, hesitant and hopeful. Kissing him tastes like the heat of an old cast iron stove, metallic and weirdly smoky. The flavour fades fast, becomes the same familiar sweet wet slick of Tommy's tongue stroking his, soft and quick and always inviting him to go deeper, take more. Common sense rears up to waggle a finger in his face, yelling at him that this is insane, this can't be real. But it feels real when Tommy melts into him, moans rough and careless around Adam's tongue tracing the sharp points of his teeth, crazy and real and right. And this time, Adam gives in.


End file.
